The Socialite and the Cattle King

by Lindsay Armstrong

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘It’s a failing most men succumb to. But unlike the pirate I would never attempt to maul you, Miss Golightly.’

  He paused and allowed his dark, masked gaze to travel over her again. ‘On the contrary, I would make your skin feel like warm silk and I would celebrate your lovely, slim body in a way that would be entirely satisfactory—for both of us.’

  Holly stifled a tremor of utmost sensuousness that threatened to engulf her down the length of her body—at least stifled the outward appearance of it, by the narrowest of margins.

  All the same, she went hot and cold and had to wonder how he did it. How did he engender a state of mind that could even have her wondering what it would be like to be Brett Wyndham’s woman. How dared he?

  Despite his arrogance, did that dark, swashbuckling presence do it to most women he came in contact with?

  Her mind swooped on this point. Would it be a relief to think she was just one of a crowd when it came to Brett Wyndham? Or would it make it worse?

  She came to her senses abruptly to find him studying her intently now and rather differently. ‘You have a problem, señor?’

  ‘No. Well, I just have the feeling I’ve met you before, Miss Golightly.’

  Holly took the bit between her teeth and contrived a quizzical little smile. ‘Many men have that problem. It is a very—how do you say it?—unoriginal approach.’

  ‘You feel I’m making a pass at you?’ he enquired lazily.

  ‘I am convinced of it.’ She presented him her half empty champagne glass. ‘Thus, I will return to my party. Au revoir.’

  But he said, ‘Were you riding a camel when your sheikh propositioned you?’

  Holly, in the act of sweeping inside, stopped as if shot.

  ‘Or a donkey, when the Mexican approached you?’ he added softly.

  ‘You knew!’ she accused.

  ‘The accent and the outfit threw me for a while, but I’m not blind or deaf. Is it all made up? And, if so, why?’

  Holly walked back to him and retrieved her champagne. ‘I’ve got the feeling I might need this,’ she said darkly and took a good sip. ‘No, well, Tahiti was true—a bit. I’ve just come back so it seemed like a good idea to—’ she gestured airily ‘—to…’ But she couldn’t think of a suitable way to cloak it.

  ‘Help pull the wool over my eyes?’ he suggested.

  Holly choked slightly on a second sip of champagne but made a swift recovery. ‘Why would I want to be recognized by you? All you ever do is query my motives, accuse me of appalling posturing and make passes at me!’

  ‘You have to admit it all sounds highly unlikely,’ he drawled. ‘Are you here with your mother?’

  Holly opened her mouth but closed it and stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you dare make fun of my mother! She—’

  A flash of pale colour registered in her peripheral vision and she turned to see her mother coming out onto the balcony. Her mother was dressed as Eliza Doolittle at the races, complete with huge hat and parasol. ‘We might as well both reprise Audrey Hepburn roles,’ Sylvia had said upon presenting the idea to her daughter.

  ‘Mum!’ Holly said. ‘What—’

  But her mother interrupted her. ‘There you are, darling! And I see you’ve met Mr Wyndham.’ Sylvia turned to Brett. ‘How do you do? I’m Sylvia Harding, Holly’s mother—yes, her real name is Holly, that’s why we thought of Holly Golightly!’ Sylvia paused and took a very deep breath. ‘But I feel sure there was some misunderstanding at the shelter lunch, and she didn’t have the opportunity to tell you that she’s a journalist and would love to interview you.’

  There was dead silence on the balcony but Sylvia went on, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents. ‘I also know she’d do a great job; she’s not her father’s daughter for nothing. He was Richard Harding, incidentally—perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Yes, I have. How do you do, Mrs Harding?’ Brett said courteously.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. You may be wondering how I recognized you, but as soon as I saw you with Sue it clicked. She’s such a lovely person, your sister. Well, I’ll leave you two together.’ She hesitated then walked back inside.

  Holly let out a long breath then finished the champagne with a gulp. ‘Don’t say a word,’ she warned Brett, once again presented him with her glass. ‘I did not arrange that, and anyway I don’t believe leopards change their spots, so I have no desire to interview you.’

  ‘Leopards?’ he queried gravely but she could see he was struggling not to laugh. ‘On top of camels, asses, Mexicans and sheikhs?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said through her teeth. ‘I believe they can be cunning, highly dangerous and thoroughly bad-minded into the bargain. If anyone should know that, you should.’

  ‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘Uh—where is this analogy leading?’

  ‘I have no faith in you not making any more passes at me, that’s where.’

  ‘I’d be demolished,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure it isn’t all one-sided.’

  Another deadly little silence enveloped the balcony.

  Holly opened her mouth but had to close it as no inspiration came to her. In all honesty, how could she deny the claim? On the other hand, every bit of good sense she possessed told her that to acknowledge it would be foolhardy in the extreme.

  So, in the end, she did the only thing available to her: she swung on her heel and walked away from him.

  ‘How was the ball?’ Mike Rafferty enquired of his boss the next morning.

  Brett lay back in his chair and appeared to meditate for a moment. ‘Interesting,’ he said at last.

  ‘Well, that’s got to be better than you expected,’ Mike replied and placed some papers on the desk. ‘The lead up to the wedding,’ he said simply.

  Brett grimaced and pulled the details of Mark’s pre-wedding festivities towards him. ‘I just hope it’s not a three-ring circus. Oh hell, another ball!’

  ‘But this one’s just a normal ball,’ Mike pointed out.

  Brett did not look mollified as he read on. ‘A soirée, a beach barbecue, a trip to the reef—da-da, da-da.’ Brett waved a hand. ‘All right. I presume they’ve got someone in to organize it all properly?’

  Mike hesitated and then coughed nervously.

  Brett stared narrowly at him. ‘Who? Not…? Not Natasha?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Brett swore.

  ‘She is the best—at this kind of thing,’ Mike offered.

  ‘But I believe they had someone else to start with who made a real hash of things, so they called on Ms Hewson and she saved the day, apparently. She and Aria are friends,’ he added.

  ‘I see.’ Brett drummed his fingers on the desk then looked to have made a decision. ‘Mike, find out all you can about a girl called Holly Harding. She’s Richard Harding’s daughter—the well-known writer—and I believe she’s a journalist herself. Do it now, please.’

  Mike stared at his boss for a moment as he tried to tie this in with Mark Wyndham’s wedding.

  ‘What?’ Brett queried.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mike said hastily. ‘Just going.’

  On Monday afternoon Glenn Shepherd called Holly into his office, and hugged her. ‘You’re such a clever girl,’ he enthused. ‘I might have known I was laying down the gauntlet to you when I mentioned his name, but how on earth did you pull it off? And why keep it such a secret?’ He released her and went back behind his desk.

  Holly, looking dazed and confused, sank into a chair across the desk. ‘What are you talking about, Glenn?’

  ‘Getting an interview with Brett Wyndham, of course. What else?’

  Holly stared at him, transfixed, then she cleared her throat. ‘I—wasn’t aware that I had.’

  Glenn gestured. ‘Well, there are a few details he wants to sort out with you before he gives his final consent, so I made an appointment for you with him for five-thirty this afternoon.’ He passed a slip of paper to her over the desk. ‘
If you’ve got anything on, cancel it. This could be your big break, Holly, and it won’t do us any harm, either. Uh—there may be some travel involved.’

  ‘Travel?’

  ‘I’ll let him tell you about it but of course we’d foot the bill where necessary.’

  ‘Glenn…’ Holly said.

  But he interrupted her and stood up. ‘Go get it, girl! And now I’ve got to run.’

  At five-twenty that afternoon, Holly glanced at the piece of paper Glenn had given her and frowned. Southbank was a lovely precinct on the Brisbane river, opposite the tall towers of the CBD. It was made up of restaurants, a swimming lagoon and gardens set around the civic theatre and the art gallery. It was not exactly where she would have expected to conduct a business meeting with Brett Wyndham.

  Then again, that was the last thing she’d expected to be doing this Monday afternoon, or any afternoon, so why quibble at the venue?

  She parked her car, gathered her tote bag and for a moment wished she was dressed more formally. But that would have involved rushing home to change, and anyway, she didn’t want him to think she’d gone to any trouble with her appearance on his behalf, did she?

  No, she answered herself, so why even think it?

  Because she might have felt more mature, or something like that, if she wasn’t dressed as she usually was for work.

  She looked down at her jeans, the pink singlet top she wore under a rather beloved jacket and her brown, short boots. This was the kind of clothes she felt comfortable in when she was traveling, as well as at work.

  As for her hair, she’d left it to its own devices that morning and the result was a mass of untamed curls.

  There could be little or no resemblance to the girl at the shelter lunch or Holly Golightly, she reasoned, which should be a good thing.

  But, she also reasoned, really her clothes and hair were nothing compared to her absolute shock and disbelief at this move Brett Wyndham had made. What was behind it?

  She shook her head, locked her car and went to find him.

  It took a moment for Brett Wyndham to recognize Holly Harding. He noticed a tall girl in denims and a pink singlet with a leather tote hanging from her shoulder, wandering down the path from the car park. He noted that she looked completely natural, with no make-up, from her wild, fair curls to her boots, as well as looking young and leggy. Then it suddenly dawned on him who she was.

  He saw her look around the restaurant terrace—their designated meeting place—and he raised a hand. He thought she hesitated briefly, then she came over.

  He stood up and offered her a chair. ‘Good day,’ he murmured as they both sat down. ‘Yet another incarnation of Holly Harding?’

  ‘This is the real me,’ Holly said dryly, and studied him briefly. He wore a black sweater, olive-canvas trousers and thick-soled black-leather shoes. His short, dark hair was ruffled; while he might have made a perfect Spanish aristocrat a few nights ago, today he looked tough, inscrutable and potentially dangerous.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Just a soft one, thank you. I never mix business with pleasure,’ Holly replied.

  He ordered a fruit juice for her and beer for himself, ignoring her rather pointed comment. ‘If this is the real you,’ he said, ‘What makes you moonlight as a social butterfly?’

  ‘My mother. Please don’t make any smart remarks,’ she warned, and explained the situation to him in a nutshell.

  ‘Very commendable.’ He paused as his beer was served, along with a silver dish of olives and a fruit-laden glass of juice topped by a pink parasol for Holly.

  ‘But a bit trying at times,’ Holly revealed, allowing her hostilities to lapse for a moment. ‘I think I would have preferred standing on a street corner with a collection box rather than that lunch, but perhaps I shouldn’t say that in deference to your sister.’ She eyed him curiously then stared out over the gardens towards the river. The sun was setting and the quality of light was warm and vivid.

  He watched her thoughtfully. ‘Each to his own method, but we seem to have a few things in common.’

  ‘Not really,’ Holly disagreed, going back to clearly hostile, and turned to look straight at him. ‘Why have you done this?’

  He countered with a question, ‘Did you or did you not tell your mother you would love to interview me?’

  ‘I…’ Holly paused. ‘I told her an interview with you could provide the boost my career needed. I told her that I’d had no idea who you were, but if there’d ever been any chance of an interview I’d blown it.’

  ‘Only, being a mother, she didn’t believe you,’ he said wryly. ‘Well, it is on, on certain conditions.’

  ‘So I hear.’ She glanced at him coolly, as if she was highly suspicious of his conditions—which she was. ‘What are they?’

  ‘I’m a bit pressed for time. I need to be in Cairns—Palm Cove, precisely. I have an important meeting. And I need to be out at Haywire the following day for a few days. It’s the only free time I have before my brother gets married, and anyway—’ he looked at her over the rim of his glass ‘—it will set the scene for you.’

  ‘You—want me to come to Palm Cove and then on to this Haywire place with you?’ she queried a little jaggedly.

  He nodded. ‘Not only am I pressed for time, but logistically it makes sense. The best way to get you to Haywire is for you to fly out there with me from Cairns.’

  ‘Do I,’ Holly gestured, ‘actually have to see this Haywire place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  He sat back and shoved his hands into his pockets with a slight frown. ‘That doesn’t sound like a dedicated journalist. Why wouldn’t you want to see it?’

  ‘Mr Wyndham,’ she said carefully, ‘You have not only accused me of being a serial socialite and a gold-digger, you’ve mentally undressed me often enough to make me seriously wary of being stuck somewhere out beyond the black stump with you!’

  Like lightning, a crooked grin creased his face which didn’t impress Holly at all.

  ‘I apologize,’ he said then. ‘I was—’ he paused to consider ‘—not in a very good mood—not at the lunch, anyway. However, you’d be quite safe at Haywire. There’s staff up there, and I’m not in the habit of forcing myself on unwilling women.’

  Holly chewed her lip then said finally, ‘What are the other conditions?’

  ‘I mainly want to talk about the work I do—so nothing personal, unless it’s ancient history. And I want to vet it before it gets published.’

  Holly blinked several times, then she said frustratedly, ‘Why me?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not? Not only are you a journalist, but you’re interesting.’ He looked amused. ‘I’ve never been walked-out on before, as you did at the lunch. I’ve never been told I was making a pass in a French accent. And I’ve never been accused of being as bad-minded as a leopard.’

  Holly realized she’d been staring at him openmouthed. She shut it hastily and watched him twirl his beer bottle in his long fingers before pouring the last of it into his glass.

  ‘But what really decided me,’ he continued, ‘was your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’ Holly repeated in dazed tones. ‘How come?’

  ‘I thought what she did was quite brave. Maybe it’s mistaken maternal faith—we’ll see, I guess—but I liked her for it.’

  Holly was seized by strong emotion and had to turn away to hide it as her eyes blazed. If it killed her, she would dearly love to prove to Brett Wyndham that her mother’s faith in her was not mistakenly maternal, even if it meant spending some days with him at Palm Cove and beyond the black stump…

  After all, there was bound to be staff at the station, and Palm Cove was highly civilized, wasn’t it? It was not as if she’d be stranded in some jungle with him. It would actually be quite difficult to be stalked by him up there, as predator and prey, and she was no silly girl to be seduced by palm trees and mango daiquiris.

  Was that all there was to i
t, however? Was simply to be in his company seductive? Was he just that kind of man? She couldn’t deny he’d had a powerful effect on her a couple of times—without even trying too hard, she thought a little bitterly. But surely that was in her power to control? Well, if not control, ignore.

  After all, was she not getting gold in return for a little self-discipline?

  She opened her mouth, looked frustrated and said, ‘You never give interviews. So I’m having a little difficulty with that.’

  ‘I’m branching out in a new direction that I was going to publicize anyway. I’ve read some of your pieces, you have your father’s touch and I thought you could do justice to it.’

  Holly’s lips parted and he could see the quickening of interest drowning the doubt and suspicion in her eyes. ‘Am I allowed to know what it is?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet. But it’s the very good reason for you to see Haywire.’

  Holly looked unamused. ‘I find you extremely—annoying at times,’ she told him.

  Brett Wyndham’s lips twisted; he wondered what she’d say if he told her how annoyed he’d been when they’d first met. He’d been annoyed at the lunch; he’d arrived annoyed, then got further annoyed at finding himself feeling a niggle of attraction towards the kind of girl he’d castigated to himself so thoroughly. When she’d walked out, the niggle had become tinged with a grudging kind of admiration—that had also annoyed him.

  Then her Holly Golightly hauteur had claimed his attention, and on discovering it was the same girl his annoyance had turned to intrigue. He was still intrigued by this version of Holly Harding—even more intrigued because he was quite sure he’d stirred some response in her…

  Still, he reflected, these were improbable lengths to go to over a smattering of intrigue to do with a woman, particularly for him. But he had liked her fresh, slightly zany style in the pieces he’d read, he reminded himself, and he had even considered the possibility of offering her some publicity work for his new venture.

  ‘So?’ He lifted an eyebrow at her.

  Holly meditated for a moment then replied quite candidly. ‘I’d love to say no, because you’ve pressed a few wrong buttons with me, Mr Wyndham. But—’ she flipped her hand ‘—you’ve also pressed a few right ones. My mother was an inspired one, in more ways than one.’ She cast him a strange little look from beneath her lashes. ‘Then there’s my editor. How I would explain to him I’ve knocked back this opportunity, I can’t even begin to think.’